by Terri Osburn
Dylan tucked his hands in his pockets. “You’ll like this one.”
Out of patience, Charley threw her hands in the air as she stomped off toward the bathroom. An entire song had likely played through by now.
“You’re a pain in my ass, Monroe.”
“I need your number,” Dylan hollered with a chuckle.
She waved the request away as she picked up her pace. “Leave yours in the booth, and I’ll considering getting in touch.”
Twenty minutes into the meet and greet that Dylan hadn’t been aware would take place, he received a text from his manager. A cryptic message out of the blue.
Come see me. I’m at the house.
Dylan didn’t have time to respond, instead tucking the phone back into his pocket and smiling through another round of pictures. When he thought they’d finally reached the end, he turned to find Charley’s roommate leaning against the wall. He searched the room for Casey, finding him in what looked like deep conversation with an intern who’d been introduced as Gunner a few minutes before.
“Are you waiting for a picture?” he asked Matty.
Appearing bored, she shook her head. “I’m not the selfie-with-a-celebrity type. Especially not when that celebrity is a complete unknown.”
Coming from Charley, the comment would have struck him as a harmless, if blunt, observation of the truth. From Matty, the words felt more like a verbal attack.
“You’re used to making the first cut, aren’t you?” Dylan asked. “Insult them before they insult you?”
“You should have told her who you were,” she said, ignoring his question. “Charley deserves better.”
“When she disappeared from the Wildhorse, did you notice? Charley said she didn’t have any texts from you asking where she’d gone.”
Though he hadn’t mentioned it at the time, several things that night had bothered Dylan. First, a supposed friend had put Charley in a situation knowing she’d be uncomfortable, and then the other friend didn’t seem to notice either her distress or her disappearance.
Matty straightened off the wall. “Casey told me she was with you. I didn’t know that you two had left the club until later, when one of the interns said she’d watched you go out the door.”
“That still leaves a good half hour before Casey got my message,” Dylan continued, closing the distance between them. “You didn’t lay eyes on your friend for that long, yet you weren’t concerned enough to even text her.”
Blue eyes flashed with anger, but not before a hint of guilt slipped through. “She’s a big girl, and that’s a big place. I figured she was out dancing. I’m her roommate, not her babysitter.”
“You and I both know how the bar scene works, especially for women, so that excuse isn’t going to fly.”
“I don’t give a shit whether it flies or not. You’re the one who took her home under false pretenses,” she snapped. “So you can stick your judgmental attitude up your ass.”
“Not that either of you seem to care,” Casey said, joining them in the corner, “but you’re drawing an audience.”
Dylan managed to keep the expletive under his breath.
“We’re done here anyway,” Matty quipped. “Stay away from Charley.”
The blonde sauntered out of the room.
“Looks like I dodged a bullet there,” Casey murmured. “Hateful woman.”
Shaking his head, Dylan turned to face his friend. “She hates herself more than she hates anyone else.”
Casey looked flummoxed. “Did we witness the same thing?”
“Forget it.” Surveying the now dwindling crowd, he pulled out his phone. “I got a text from Mitch.”
“What’d he say?”
“Wants me to come see him at his house.”
“We’ve got rehearsal at two,” the drummer reminded. “He’s all the way down in Franklin, and it’s already after noon.”
Dylan shoved the cell back in his pocket. “I can make it if I leave now. Think Clay will mind if I go?”
The redhead glanced around. “This thing is about over. I doubt he’ll care.”
“Did the others really hear my talk with Matty?”
“Who’s Matty?” his friend asked. “You mean Matilda?”
“Charley told me she goes by Matty. Didn’t you get that info Saturday night?”
“She left that part out. And no, but you two were getting louder, and Clay noticed. You’ve got to be on your game, man. That chick isn’t worth blowing our chance over.”
Antsy to hit the road, Dylan grabbed his guitar off the table. “I know how important this is, all right? I’m not going to do anything to screw it up. Tell Clay I’m leaving.” Walking away, he added, “I’ll see you at rehearsal.”
“That man is a total asshole. You were right never to see him again.”
Charley had never witnessed Matty this angry. She’d also not expected her to storm into the booth twelve seconds before the end of a song.
“Hold that thought,” she said, slipping on her headphones. “Blake Shelton wrapping up another ten in a row here on Eagle 101.5. Charley Layton with you, and still to come this hour is our Manic Monday giveaway. When you hear the sound of maniacal laughter, be the ninth caller and you could pick up those Country Music Hall of Fame passes. Twelve twenty-three now, and after the break I’ll have the new one from Luke Bryan.”
The second the headphones were off, Matty resumed her pacing. “How dare he call me a bad friend?”
No need to ask whom she was talking about. “Dylan called you a bad friend? Why?”
“Because I didn’t frantically text you Saturday night after you left the club. You weren’t gone that long before Casey told me you were with Dylan, and I assumed that meant you were with him in the club, not alone together somewhere else.”
“We weren’t alone in the restaurant,” Charley pointed out.
“I mean,” Matty hedged, ignoring the comment, “I wondered where you were before that, because you had my purse, but I found it backstage once I remembered that Ruby had dragged you into the spotlight with her.”
So she’d really only been worried about her purse. Nice.
“Why do you care what Dylan thinks?” Charley asked. Matty hardly respected her boss’s opinion, let alone anyone else’s. “Without the message from Casey, you would have looked for me eventually, right?”
As if this were a stupid question, Matty rolled her eyes. “Of course I would have. We had that cake for you, remember? I’d have found you for that.”
According to Vivi at the front desk, they hadn’t brought out the cake until ten thirty. A full two hours after Charley had left the club.
“Then we’re good,” she said, understanding her place.
Charley had always been content to accept people for who they were. So Matty was self-centered. She was also drama-free, moderately tidy, and didn’t chew with her mouth open. All bigger deal-breakers than a lack of social backup.
“I knew you’d understand.” She finally stopped pacing. “He’s such a jerk. How did you spend a whole evening with him?”
Though Charley had tagged him with a matching insult less than an hour ago, she didn’t like Matty doing the same. “You two have clearly gotten off on the wrong foot. If you get to know him, you’ll see that Dylan isn’t a jerk at all. He’s actually a really nice guy.”
“Jesus, Charley. Tell me you aren’t falling for his aw-shucks routine.”
Checking the computer, she found a minute to go before the weather. “I’m not falling for anything, Matty. You hating all men doesn’t mean I have to.”
The accountant threw her hands in the air. “He lied to you.”
“He didn’t lie,” Charley confessed, acknowledging a truth she hadn’t admitted until that moment. “I never asked him what he did for a living. Not in those exact words. So he didn’t volunteer the information. Fine. I’ll deal with that. But he never lied.”
Blonde hair swayed as she shook her head. “You’re so naive.
He’s using you. You work in radio, and his little dream depends on getting airplay. What better way in than to butter up to the DJ?”
The truth became glaringly obvious.
“We both know that I have no pull when it comes to what gets played on this radio station, and I doubt Dylan is delusional enough not to know that. The truth is, you don’t think a guy like Dylan would ever be interested in me without some ulterior motive. Someone who isn’t petite and blonde with curves in all the right places. That’s what you’re really saying, isn’t it?”
“Men are scum,” Matty replied. “That’s what I’m saying. If you want to learn that the hard way, go for it.”
Charley didn’t offer a response as the final seconds of the last commercial counted down. Instead, she grabbed the forecast and reached for her headphones, remaining silent as her roommate left the booth.
Chapter 10
“Mitch?” Dylan called, after ringing the doorbell and knocking several times had been met with silence. He’d stepped into the house, surprised to find the door unlocked. “Mitch, it’s Dylan. You here?”
An odd noise from his left drew his attention to the living room. Once he reached the sofa, the situation became clear. The coffee table and floor were littered with empty liquor bottles while what looked like the last quart of vodka rested on Mitch’s chest.
“Wake up,” Dylan said, shaking his manager. “You’ve been sober for a year. What the hell happened?” As he spoke, he rounded the couch and collected the bottles scattered across the expensive area rug.
Mitch wedged up on his elbows, sending the vodka bottle rolling under the table. “I took a long walk off a short wagon,” he answered, dropping back and rubbing his eyes.
Voice like sandpaper, he smelled like a tub of gin, and his clothes—a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts—were wrinkled and stained. Lord only knew how long he’d been in them.
“Where did you get all of this?” Dylan asked.
“I’ve been stocking up for six months.” Bare feet swung to the floor. “Tucking them here and there, like a diabetic hiding candy bars.”
“Why would you do that?”
“How the hell should I know?” Mitch shifted to a sitting position and reached for the vodka. After a long swig, he balanced it on his knee. “Did you blow them away at the radio station?”
Dylan felt good about his performance, but like anything, he remained dubious. “The interview went well. I played the right chords and hit the right notes.”
“That’s what I like about you, Monroe. You’re determined without being delusional.”
Speaking of delusional.
“We have a show at the Marathon on Friday,” Dylan said. “I need you there, and I need you sober. Can you do that?”
The Marathon Music Works was Dylan’s favorite place to play in the city, and they’d been lucky to land a Friday night opening.
“Boy,” Mitch growled, “don’t talk to me like I’m a damn idiot. I’ll be sober, shaved, and spit-shined by the time they open those doors. You worry about putting on a show. I’ll handle the rest.”
Until a week ago, Mitch had handled everything that Shooting Star Records hadn’t, and some things that they should have. He’d convinced the Tennessean newspaper to run an article on the Louisiana boy about to make good, scored Dylan tickets to the Country Music Hall of Fame dinner Saturday night—offering the perfect opportunity to schmooze some big names and maybe land an opening gig on an upcoming tour—and booked the Friday night show at the Marathon.
Though Mitch’s reputation on Music Row wasn’t the best, Dylan believed in second chances, and Mitch Levine had proven time and again that signing him on as manager had been the right decision. Until the last week, they’d been cruising along, knocking down one door after another.
So why now? Why dive into a bottle when they were so close to their goal?
“Is this week some anniversary or something? The date of a painful memory that you had to drink your way through?”
Mitch rubbed his scruff-covered chin. “A drunk doesn’t need a special occasion to fill his glass.”
“It doesn’t look like you bothered with a glass.”
“I started with one. I’m not sure what happened to it.”
“Why did you drag me down here?” Dylan asked.
The answer had to wait until Mitch had finished off the last of the vodka and tossed the bottle down with the others. With a belch, he leaned back and stretched pale, hairy legs to rest on the glass tabletop.
“I have an idea for branding,” he declared, words noticeably slurred. “We need to play up that pretty face of yours and make you the most eligible bachelor in country music.”
Dylan rejected the idea immediately. “I doubt an unknown is going to knock Chesney off that pedestal. I say we let the music lead and forget about the face.”
“Which is why you pay me the big bucks. Or will,” he clarified. “The country music demographic swings female. The girls want a guy with a nice ass, a pretty face, and music they can dance to. When you’ve got all three, you use ’em for all they’re worth.”
The man had a point. Though Dylan wasn’t sure how he felt about his manager pointing out his nice ass.
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I’ve got a contact at Country Today magazine, and they’re working on a list of the most eligible bachelors in the genre. The article won’t come out until the end of the year, but they’re doing the interviews and photo shoots this month.”
Sounded like a good opportunity, but this didn’t explain why Dylan had to drive twenty minutes out of town.
“Give me a date and time and I’ll be there. But you could have told me this over the phone. Why am I here, Mitch?”
The older man met his client’s gaze for the first time since he’d walked in. “You’re here because I owe you an apology, and that needed to happen in person. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t come to you.”
Dylan nodded. “Fair enough.”
“You’re the only client I’ve got, Monroe. The drinking chased the rest off, but you stuck with me, and I owe you better than this. I’m sorry I went AWOL on you. It won’t happen again.”
“I appreciate that,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Mitch had offered representation after Dylan’s first deal had fallen through, when no one else would even take his calls. With dogged determination and unwavering support, he’d spent three years promising another deal, and now they had one. Mitch had more than earned Dylan’s loyalty.
“Then we’re good?” Mitch asked.
“Yes, sir. You need help cleaning this up?”
Mitch dropped his feet to the floor and teetered on the edge of the sofa. “I’ve got it. You want something to drink? I think there might be water in the kitchen.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’ve got rehearsal at two. Do I need to do a quick search for more of the hard stuff and toss it out?”
“Nope. This is every last bottle I had.” The manager stood up, wavering until he caught his balance. “Damn, that first step’s a doozy.”
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, truly concerned.
“I’ll feel like shit for a few days, but I’ll make it. When I lock in a date on the magazine stuff, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll see you Friday night.”
Waiting a beat to make sure the man remained upright, Dylan pulled his keys from his pocket.
“Call me if you need me,” he offered, heading for the exit.
“Yeah, yeah,” echoed behind him. “I’ll be fine.”
“The radio visit was a success,” Clay said, sitting at the head of a conference table surrounded by his gifted, if small, staff. “How can we build on this?”
Ralph Sampson, Shooting Stars’s radio liaison, chimed in first. “Willoughby has already agreed to add the single to the Eagle rotation, and we’ve locked in two stations in Shreveport anxious to play a hometown boy. I’ve drafted an email sharing news of
the adds, as well as our streaming numbers as of noon today. The message will hit the inbox of every major market programmer on our list first thing tomorrow morning, and I may update it with more streaming numbers before hitting Send. I’ll target midsize and smaller markets on Friday, hopefully with an edit to include other confirmed adds.”
“I’m working social media from all angles,” said Daphne Bukowski. “The pics we got from the station meet and greet are garnering lots of attention. If we can up the shares on Twitter, we could crawl onto the Emerging Artists chart on Billboard, but that’s a slow build right now.” The tiny blonde tipped up her glasses as she flipped a page in her notepad. “Newsletter subscriptions are up over the last twenty-four hours, as well as our Facebook and Instagram followers. I need Dylan to be more active on his accounts. He’s the draw for the younger female audience. He needs to give them something to follow.”
“Higher numbers is what I like to hear, and I’ll talk to Dylan about his online activity.” Clay turned to Lenny Cooper. “How are we looking on the distribution side?”
The balding father of two lowered his Tennessee Titans mug to the table. “We’re good. The single went live with no problems on all major outlets, and preorders for the album doubled overnight. Though we’re talking unknown artist numbers, not the kind you’d see for a Luke Bryan or a Miranda Lambert release.”
That was the downside to stacking veterans of the business. They knew the realities of the industry and when their talents were being underutilized.
“We need to start looking at new artists,” added Naomi. “Now that Dylan is up and running, we’re ready for another project. Running a label with only one act won’t get us very far, especially if that one act doesn’t take off.”
Clay knew Naomi well enough to know her comment didn’t mean a lack of faith in Dylan’s abilities or appeal. She was simply speaking the truth. Something the others had been hinting at for the last couple of months.
“I’m glad you brought that up,” he replied. “I’ve got my eye on someone right now.”
“Who?” asked Daphne.
